


Tales of the Tavern

by the_myth_of_winter



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Fantasy, Glimwood Tangle, Horror, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Nonbinary Character, One Shot Collection, Other, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Surreal, Tarot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23140423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_myth_of_winter/pseuds/the_myth_of_winter
Summary: Come on in! Tired from battling? From hatching eggs? From burying bodies? From crawling through the Wild Area searching for treasure? Oh, you smell like Death – probably even seen it…We warmly welcome all travellers overtaken by night on their journey. No matter where you come from or what business you have attending to, no one is turned away at the Tavern. Everything and everyone is permitted… except murder. It will take eons to scrub the blood out of the woodwork – don’t ask. This is a neutral space. Cast your worries by the hearth. Avail yourself to some of the finest brews in the region.Of course, we do seek a little compensation of sorts. Not in coin, rather, secrets… Tell me, what stories do you bring to our doors?
Kudos: 7





	1. Tale of the Tangle

This story has neither a beginning nor an ending. This story can only be told through the cards. This story can only be told in a circle, in the shadows of candles, in whispers washing against eager ears. This story can only be told to a tavern in times of a tempest.

Perhaps this story starts out with the snap of a twig underfoot. Perhaps this story finds itself in the flicker of mushroom spores. Perhaps this story should be consumed with a lager of colbur ale. Perhaps this story comes with a prelude: of tavern doors creaking open, of a figure bringing in the storm’s chill. Scanning through the crowd of faces who have all turned to look at the newcomer, the figure cast their gaze upon my humble booth. Within a couple of strides, they stood before me. Without a word, they pointed towards the deck of cards cushioned within embroidered champagne silk. Not as a question, unlike most who sought my services and skills. But as a thread unspooling itself into a story.

So perhaps this story began when the cards laid themselves out to be read. Or maybe it began in a place where the trees tangle about themselves as if in a skein. A forest veiled in a mist of iridescence, where mushrooms of odd shapes grow taller than you. A forest where the pathways go everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

You do not remember where you came from. You do not recall the circumstances that led you to stand amidst leaves that seem to refract light into variegated colours. You remember following someone. Or something. You remember pale moonlight, a vision of pearlescent pulsing. Was it your mind or was it a spectre? Perhaps it was both. You remember it floating through the forest. You remember how it was constantly out of reach. You do not know how long you have wandered through the tangle. You no longer know who you are anymore. Names have lost their meanings. Things have lost their names. Memories too. They fade like bubbles, into the humid embrace of vines.

You are not sure if you have been walking in circles. Nothing in the forest is distinct. You are not sure if you have passed by this glowing amber mushroom for the fourth, fifth, tenth time. You are not sure if there are eyes watching you from the deep emerald canopy. You tried walking in a certain straightness. You do not seem to find yourself going anywhere. You wonder if anything in this forest is even real. You wonder if you are real. There is nothing but roaming and doubts.

You finally come across a clearing in the forest. A tree with sprawling branches stands in the centre, the surrounding earth veined by its thick roots. Beneath the tree, a silhouette of white glowed, seemingly shrouded by luminous specks that hovered and jumped around. Ghost or not, the figure turned to face you. Light acted strangely; as if spilling over or veiling them. One moment their features could be clearly made out, and the next they were imperceptible. What appeared to be hair cascaded down from crown to toe. They wore nothing, covered entirely in hair and will-o’-wisps.

Something stirred in you. A seed. A sapling. A sprout slowly taking over your being. Desire. It burgeoned in a chasm of memory. You remember a voice. You remember a voice calling your name. What was your name? You found yourself moving towards the figure. Seeking answers from a spectre seemed like a silly idea. But Desire drove you forward. Its thorns pricked at your chest and travelled down your torso. Desire coiled around you, wrapped around you, pulled you in close until you were completely sinking deeper and deeper. When those lips of glass met yours, you remembered everything. You remembered the power inside a kiss. You remembered the feeling of longing. You remembered the feeling of loneliness. You remembered skin, face, eyes, nose, mouth, hair, scent, voice. You remembered being with someone. You remembered Desire. Flesh met flesh; hands held hands. Cold blossomed into heat as you kissed the spectre, and swallowed a garden of hair. A kiss. What a dangerous thing for you to do.

Desire continued to flourish, expanding throughout the forest. Branches became laden with fruit and berries burst across the foliage, staining the floor in variegated colours. The undergrowth dazzled with a kaleidoscope of puffing mushrooms. The figure became nothing but a tangled mess of hair that grew at extraordinarily rapid speeds. You found yourself enveloped in a cocoon of hair. Hair that was humming with birdsong, hair that bled with colours of a pastel sky, hair that caught onto your skin. You heard a voice whispering to you from somewhere. Was the hair talking to you? Who was it? You wanted to ask. But the hair closed in on you until you could see nothing. You could feel nothing. You wanted to cry out but there was nothing. Desire had dissolved itself into you.

_there was a house… laughter… chasing after the bright mint and lavender tails of baby ponytas… there was a person... there was an afternoon… of honey… of cakes… of cream… there was a stern warning… told... and… not to eat… what was forbidden… the fruit… someone called… the sweetness… the allure… too much temptation…… what was wrong… why could you… not control… the words flew out… all the birds in the sky… suddenly… nothing but… stillness… and then… and then you ran… a voice called out… rivulets… down your cheekbones… everything… in a blur…_

When you came to, you were still in the clearing. You had no idea how much time had passed. The figure was gone. There was not a strand of hair to be seen. You stood up, took stock of yourself. Something felt different. Something had changed. You had changed. You could not describe what this change was. Words had escaped you, literally. You stumbled over deep roots and through brushes. It was not a matter of where you were going, but where to go.

With no sense of direction or time, it was a brutal stormy night when the forest finally spat you out. You began to perceive a world beyond the labyrinthine clutches. You slowly felt sense trickle back into your being.

You spotted a signpost several feet away, completely taken over by straw-like mushrooms of a purplish hue.

_G*I*W*** T*N*L*_

You could only make out a few letters. There seemed to be a note stuck to the sign. The ink on it was barely visible – who knew how long it had been pinned there. The harsh elements were not helping it in terms of readability either.

_“Stop. Turn back. Do not enter after dusk.”_

A sudden squall ripped the note off. It joined brown leaves into being carried away deep into the forest. As the downpour became more relentless, you soldiered on along the road until you saw the facade of a tavern in the distance.

Perhaps it was fate that led you to the tavern. Perhaps it was fate that drew you towards a reader. Perhaps it was the cards. Perhaps it was not fate, but something inside you that knew. Deep within you was a story – told through the cards, told through the forest, told through the phantasm. Perhaps this is a story about Desire. Perhaps this is a story about nothing. Perhaps there is no meaning to this story. Perhaps this story is not for telling, not for remembering. A story that cannot be captured by language. There are stories like this one, I have heard, that are simply too difficult to describe or too easy to be expressed. Stories that are too light; too precious; too painful; too quiet; too tender; too burdensome; too confusing; too convoluted. Or perhaps, this is a story we have not read, a story that cannot be read. A story that you left as a strand in my mouth.


	2. Tale of the Horn

You stood from your booth. You saw a card illustrated with a gilded carriage of silver wheels, pulled forward by two equestrian entities cloaked in light. They were on a path constructed out of clouds, basking in the glow of the heavens. A strange tranquility permeated and trembled from this card. Your fingertips touched the borders of the card, as if an electric current could come forth from the image at any moment. You placed it in the center, before me. _The Chariot_. You decide that this card would be the cornerstone of your tale, its driving force. 

* * *

All my life, I was cursed. They called me the horned child. Between two strands of baby hair, I bore the mark of evil, a night-shaded spike with a band of silver. This purple protrusion was a symbol of what was corrupt in my veins. Karmic forces accumulated over generations of bloodshed and sin had finally pierced through as a permanent reminder. This child of cursed flesh, this vessel of atonement.

For years, they hid me away from the world. My entire childhood was spent in the _pithos_ of Pandora, in the pits of shame and scorn. I was treated as neither human nor animal. A mad dog’s kernel was given more attention and care. At least flogging could be considered a gift, an act of kindness or pity. I was never given any of those. All I had to my name was a knit cap. I was made to wear it at all times, to bury the family’s blemish at all costs. I thought that the cap was a sign of liberation, a sign that things could change. In those fleeting moments spent in the world outside, I quickly learnt how the darkness and the loneliness would only follow me. How curses could never be undone, only uttered. 

All my life, I have cursed. I breathe, I chew, I curse. I cursed the day I was born. I cursed the body that I was given. I cursed the horn on my crown. I cursed the cap that concealed it. I smell, I see, I curse. I cursed my siblings who grew up to become fine daughters and sons, who left the family grounds to start their own. I cursed the servants who pretended not to notice me. Even those who showered me with crumbs of pity. I cursed the strangers who stared at me on the streets, who asked me where I got that cap from, why I was wearing it. I cursed the fingers that tugged at my cap, pulled it off and saw what was beneath. I cursed the children that would run away when they saw me, that would not stay to play. When I ran out of things to curse, I invented new curses. My new forms of vitriol found new targets. I cursed the moon for its many wavering faces. I cursed the tree branches for blocking my sunlight. I cursed the god(s) of curses for limiting this language-tool of violence. I cursed language. I cursed time. I cursed all of creation and the very act of it. I live, I curse, I exist, I curse. 

All my life, I was alone. I was always forgotten. Even as the family manor grew quieter and emptier, I was no stranger to its stillness. I was the only child left behind. The only one that was never match-made, that was never talked about at the dinner table. Like a cobweb in a corner. Even when my parents gravely fell to a mysterious ailment, they forgot about me. If there was ever an instance when they remembered, they would immediately forget. They stared at me like I was a shadow whenever I brought them their medication. They would look out of the windows, muse aloud at what sort of lives their children could possibly be living out. Their children who had not a single clue of their parents’ nearing fates. Their children, untouched by the fae. 

Whether one believed in the fae was up to them. As someone bearing a curse, nothing was unbelievable. The notions of believing and believability was just another way of perceiving, another way of interpreting reality. My reality was different from everyone else’s. My entire life had been framed by this cursed horn. I thought this to be true, if Truth was something that existed, that could be attained. I had assumed that no one could understand my reality. No one would be able to see and perceive what I had experienced, what I lived through day and night. No one would notice if I mysteriously vanished.

As dusk fell, I left the manor to take a walk through the nearby woods. The woods was where I often retreated to, whenever I could leave the prison of my childhood. When none of the other kids would want to play with me, I would wander into the woods and explore its lushness. No one in my family would have cared if anything befell me. I was very sure that some of them were secretly praying that a wild creature or monster would attack me, and have me for its next meal. No one really knew where the woods led to. The manor sat on the outskirts, flanked by a forested region that sprawled around the country’s borders. Rarely did anyone try to go deep enough into the woods. According to old wives’ tales, those who went deep into the heart of the forest never came back. If they did, they were no longer humans, simply shells of their former selves. Some say that the trees acted as an invisible border to a hidden realm, unseen to the naked eye. That children who stole, lied, or disobeyed their parents would be taken away to this forest kingdom as punishment. Some say that the woods were home to creatures and beings unbeknownst to humans. Unimaginable horrors that escaped human comprehension. Maybe it was the work of the fae. Maybe it was another country that did not want to be discovered or invaded. Maybe those who lived among the trees and the vines were cursed like me. Those stories and fairy-tales never really intimidated me. When your life has been cursed, you have nothing to lose. If I disappeared forever into the forest, nothing would have changed. Perhaps, it would have been better if I was taken away. Perhaps, I would not be alone.

As I ventured deep into the forest, I noticed the air change around me. It was subtle, as if the trees were giving me a side-eye glance. Eventually, I found myself navigating through misty paths littered with luminescent foliage. The forest sang with the crisp chill of winter yet rays gamboled through the canopy like it was spring. As I was drawn, tugged, perhaps lured, to some unknown destination, all the colours appeared as though I was looking through the lens of a dewdrop. They swirled, saturated, in a shifting state of effervescence. Everything was hazy yet sheer. There were shades that I could not name; unrecognisable hues from a spectrum my eyes were not used to. These wordless variations of colours must have struck a chord in me. Coolness trickled down the warming of my cheeks. I wondered if those colours ever felt lonely like I did. To not have a name, to not be perceived. Did they truly exist or were my eyes caught in someone’s hallucinatory game? Was this a trap? Did I imagine the entire forest? Like an answer before the question, the colours talked to me. 

Or rather, they communicated to me. Without words. Without language. In the form of a horned beast, its ethereal protrusion gleaming through the mist. I recognise that horn. It was like mine. It trotted towards me. With one swift flick that my eyes could barely capture, it released my cap to the wilderness. The forest floor, a breathing and pulsating entity, consumed the piece of headwear. What once concealed my curse was no longer anywhere to be seen. As naked as I felt before the colours, I somehow felt no shame. Not a single iota of the shame that used to puddle around me like dusk-long shadows. The beast whinnied, connecting its horn to mine. And in that moment, I saw myself. I saw a language. A language that envisioned alien futures. I saw how a twig in this forest became the arms to an ocean called infinity. I saw what could not be perceived. I saw what was yet to be.

What happened next? Did I stare straight down at fate, at the unspinning eye of its wheel? Did I gallop away into the green, riding on the wings of silver? Did I sit in a carriage of mushrooms, arrive at a ball, doing cartwheels with the creatures of midnight? Did I lie at the bottom of a crystal pool, glimpsing every facet of this polyphonous universe? Did I rewrite ‘curse’ into ‘cure’; ‘never’ into ‘now’?

I was never hidden from The World. The World was hidden from me. 

* * *

It lies before You now, on this table. 

What will You do with it?


End file.
